Roses, and a Curse
by The Bounzaby Cormain
Summary: A young girl was once saved by the opera ghost, and now, she comes back to l'Opéra in need once more. Both of their worlds are tumbled into chaos when they forge a relationship more than healer and patient: neccessity.
1. Chapter 1

Bonjour, mes amis. Je suis très hereuse que vous êtes ici. J'espère que vous aimez le première chapitre de ma première fanfic pour Le Phantôme de l'Opéra. Amusez-vous!

(Hello, my friends! I am very happy that you are here. I hope that you like the first chapter of my first fanfic for The Phantom of the Opera. Have fun!)

Anyways, je ne sais pas any French. Here is my first PotO fanfiction, and it's been in my head for about a few weeks or so. This is mostly ALW and Leroux based, since I've only seen/read those versions (unhappy me!). I hope you enjoy, and I do love reviews, espescially ones that offer suggestions!

insert some theme songs here

The Naze.

---

"Stop coach, please, monsieur."

The coach drew to a halt outside of l'Opéra Populaire, and a footman who had been standing in the back came to open the door and put down the steps. He then offered his hand inside the carriage, and a young girl took the hand and stepped out.

Her dress and hair were dark, and she regarded l'Opéra with a mixture of delight and anxiety. As she rearranged her skirts, a young man, dressed somewhat stylishly, came down to the street as well, marveling in l'Opéra and the beauty of Paris.

"It is very grand, is it not?" the girl said, eyeing her companion. He nodded with obvious awe. After a moment, he turned and fetched two satchels from inside of the carriage, and handed one to the girl. As he reached in for a third, smaller bag, the girl breathed deeply.

The two companions exchanged smiles.

---

Monsieur Lefèvre looked up from his desk, wondering who was bothering him. "Come in."

The door was opened and in walked a young woman with a delighted smile, followed closely by a slightly older man with two bags. The woman, who could better be described as a girl, was greeting him vivaciously before he could stand to greet the two properly.

"Ah, monsieur, it has been far too long! L'Opéra is looking as beautiful as ever, M Lefèvre, and I am so pleased to see you! Why, it has been all of ten years, and you still look just as I remember."

"Excusez-moi, madamoiselle, I am afraid I cannot remember who you could be." M Lefèvre was bemused by this chattering girl, who he guessed to be no more than sixteen.

"Ah, but of course," the girl said, not seeming unhappy or surprised. "Ten years has changed you very little, but I have been much changed, as you see. I am Renée Marie-Laure Clairemont, monsieur. I was here many years ago, when I was very ill. Madame Giry, is she still here? Oh, that is very excellent, monsieur- well, she helped me heal to be as good as new."

"Ah, Madamoiselle Clairemont, how very good to see you again. Indeed, you are very changed, but why, you must be sixteen now, yes?"

"Yes indeed, monsieur, I am sixteen since six months ago. In March."

At this point, Mlle Clairemont's companion cleared his throat slightly.

"Ah! Yes, of course. You are so quiet, Amoury, it's a wonder I don't forget you more often. M Lefèvre, this is my traveling companion M Amoury Christian Trotter."

"A pleasure, M Trotter. Any friend of Mlle Clairemont's is a friend of mine. She quite charmed us all ten years ago, monsieur."

"I am very sure of it, M Lefèvre. She charms all wherever she goes." Amoury Trotter gave a smiling glance at Mlle Clairemont.

"And how old are you, M Trotter?" M Lefèvre looked at Amoury expectantly. Amoury hesitated.

"Amoury is one and twenty, monsieur. He is very shy, but there you go!" Mlle Clairemont-- Renée-- was smiling, and Amoury gave her a look. "Amoury, do not look at me like that, M Lefèvre is not a stranger to me. I would tell any of my acquaintances my age, why are you so very cross with me?"

Amoury merely shrugged in defeat at Renée's happy banter.

"You see, Mlle Clairemont, you charm even your harsh friend Amoury. Now now, M Trotter, don't argue, you are very harsh indeed." But M Lefèvre was smiling, and Amoury knew he was playing for Renée.

But of course, who could not?

---

Renée tapped on the door, then again, louder. Footsteps, and then the door opened.

"Madame Giry!"

"Excuse me, madamoiselle, who might you be?" Madame Giry was in a black dress, some golden embroidery displaying a fondness for Oriental design.

"Madame, I am sure you will remember me. I am Renée Marie-Lau-"

"Renée? Little Renée, from all those years ago?" Madame Giry's eyes widened, and when Renée nodded, she enfolded the girl in her arms.

Stepping back, smiling, Madame Giry looked Renée up and down. "You have grown lovely, Renée. I am very glad to see you."

Renée blushed; Madame Giry had never been easy with compliments. She looked to Amoury, who was behind her. Madame Giry eyed him. "Oh, Madame Giry, this is my traveling companion, Amoury Christian Trotter." They exchanged a nod. "Amoury, why don't you go to the backstage. Here, leave the bags."

Amoury nodded, and Madame Giry gave him instructions. He left, looking back to see Giry and Renée going into the former's room.

Giry shut the door carefully, and Renée sat down on a chair. Mme Giry turned to Renée, smiling. "I am so very happy you have returned, my dear. You brought such happiness to us all when you became better. And you still are well, I see! I am so very happy."

Renée looked down, and when she finally met Mme Giry's gaze, her eyes were glazed with a film of tears. "Oh, madame, I am so very glad to see you as well. But I am not still well."

"But you are so alive! It seems impossible you still are ill."

"It is a gradual process, madame, but I was only truly purged of my curse--" how she spat the word, Mme Giry thought-- "for four years after I left here. When I was eleven, I was marked once again, and twice when I was twelve. In the past month, Mme Giry, I have been hit by it twice in the last three weeks. I had to leave Italy; I was there with my family."

"I am so sorry, my dear. But how did you heal so very quickly, when you were so much younger? Perhaps we can heal you once more, and free you longer from your illness."

Renée shook her head. "Madame, I have never told a soul. And it is a great desire of my savior that I tell none about him."

"Is he the Opera Ghost, Renée?" Mme Giry asked.

Renée was so very shocked that her face turned whiter as whey. "Renée, are you ill? Or am I right?" Mme Giry was insistent. "Renée!"

Renée, in her time in Italy, had learned from a great magician how to faint. So she did.


	2. Chapter 2

Je continue.

For those who care about such things, chapter 1 takes place in 1865, consequently making this one take place in 1855.

* * *

_Ten years previous._

"Stop it! Put me down!"

Tiny fists banged against him as he rushed down the rue, drawing distasteful looks. He cared little for their good opinion when he was so tortured by the troubled creature in his arms. No, it was no creature. It was his daughter.

She was too young, he thought, too young to be so cursed by such mania. He'd once thought landowners had the harshest time of all, but he had since reconsidered. What horrors awaited his daughter now, when she was only six and already becoming a beast?

He finally slowed and stopped as he looked up at the formidable, awesome spectacle before him: L'Opéra Populaire.

He'd no idea why he thought his contact here could help his little girl, but he trusted his gut, he always had. And he was still here, no?

Yet he realized if he did not hurry, his daughter might not be.

---

Monsieur Lefèvre looked up disinterestedly from his desk at the knock. He'd been bothered twice in the last half-hour, once by the prima ballerina Thèrese Allemande and once by Madame Giry, who had reminded him the Opera Ghost's salary was due.

So in slight agitation, M Lefèvre called, "Come in!" and the door opened quickly, closing in the same manner.

"Bonjour, monsieur." M Lefèvre looked at the man with slight interest. He was dressed rather well, with his dark, smooth hair in the fashion of the day and his stature strong.

"Bonjour. Might I be informed of who you are, monsieur?" M Lefèvre said, trying not to sound affronted.

"I am Monsieur Clairemont, from Le Mans, and this is my daughter, Renée. I trust you are M Lefèvre?"

But M Lefèvre did not at first register the question, as shocked as he was by the little girl who had escaped his notice, even as she lay in her father's arms. She was limp, but she was white as chalk and fought in her sleep against her father's hold.

"My daughter is ill, monsieur. I gave her a drought to still her, lest she hurt herself."

"Désolée, M Clairemont, for my rude staring. I am indeed M Lefèvre. Is there a particular reason for your coming here in such a hard time for you?" M Lefèvre eyed the girl once more as she pushed a palm against her father's chest, and then looked up at M Clairemont.

"Ah. Yes. I have an acquaintance here, a Madame Giry-"

"And you wish to speak with her. Of course," M Lefèvre said. "I shall have her summoned at once." M Clairemont bowed his head graciously, and M Lefèvre sent a wandering ballerina to find the ballet teacher.

---

Madame Giry was combing her daughter's hair in a rare moment of peace. Meg chattered in her young voice about nothing in particular while her mother arranged the sleek blondness to perfection.

A knock on her door made her falter a little, and she went over to answer it. After a hushed conversation, Mme Giry quickly turned to her daughter. "Meg, I must attend to something. Go watch the dancers, my dear, they should be practicing. Perhaps you can ask Mlle Allemande for a few tips, she is a very good teacher." Meg dashed off prettily, sparing one curious glance to the man who stood aside for her.

"Come in," Madame Giry said, holding the door open. He entered, and as she saw him, she opened her mouth in a little 'o' of surprise. "M Clairemont?"

"It is I, Mme Giry, with my daughter Renée. She is very ill, madame, and I fear she has little chance of recovery."

"I shall do all I can to help her," Giry pronounced, closing the door. "What plagues your daughter, monsieur?"

"Call me Luc, madame. My daughter is plagued with something very strange. If I were not too logical to be supersticious, I would think she was cursed by a witch. But witch or no, this is indeed a curse."

Madame Giry looked closely at Luc Clairemont's daughter. Renée was very pale, with dark hair and fine features. She seemed to sleep, but she still fought her father's hold. "Come, place her on my bed, Luc, and I shall attend to her while you explain her condition."

She took the girl from him; he relinquished her reluctantly.

"As you may have heard, her mother died three years ago. She had a harsh infection, and died not two weeks after it was discovered by a doctor."

"I am sorry, Luc."

"No need, Mme Giry, it was not of your making. In any case," Clairemont continued, "our daughter was left with no mother. I brought in a new maid, who was unfortunately ill suited to my daughter, and she left after a month of tension in our home. Last year, I remarried to the most wonderful of women and I am pleased to announce Renée is very happy with her new mother."

A deep pause ensued, and Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. "And yet?"

"Renée began having, well, fits, madame."

"Fits? I cannot understand you, monsieur."

M Clairemont took a shaky breath. "She is very plagued, Madame Giry. She, well, my daughter-"

A cry came from the bed, and both started. Little Renée was fighting some unknown foe that had taken form of Mme Giry's sheets, and she fought viciously, even as Mme Giry quickly took the girl's arms to still her.

"I fear she is going insane."

* * *

I'm sorry the length of this chapter is so short, like the last one. I feel like if my chapters are shorter, I will write faster. Perhaps when I'm farther along, I will combine some chapters or lengthen them.

And as always, feedback is very appreciated!


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